


Twisted allegories

by Comedia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, ring corruption, takes place sometime after Bilbo is given the Mithril shirt, treasure sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comedia/pseuds/Comedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sickness is heavy on Thorin's mind, and he locks himself away, hoping that putting some distance between himself and the treasure will help him focus. When Bilbo seeks him out he's pleasantly surprised, but things such as love and greed keep blending together, and the halfling carries a burden of his own; they are broken people holding onto this single moment of clarity, until the abyss once again envelops them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twisted allegories

**Author's Note:**

> Named after [this](http://youtu.be/0f71XfN_DLI) song. It felt kind of fitting.

Once upon a time they used to hide his grandfather away like this. Thorin would gently wrap his arms around Thrór, leading him away from any curious eyes. He saw firsthand what the sickness could do – how easily his family was affected – and he felt helpless watching his grandfather slip further and further away from him.

The company is in need of leadership, and yet here he is; many years later, hiding behind closed doors just like Thrór did. As if it did not prove futile back then. As if this would be enough to keep the darkness from entering his mind. The whispers are always there – the gleam of gold and the overwhelming hunger for more.

He knows that he is too far gone – that he will soon enough succumb completely – but there are still moments of clarity. Closing himself off from the outside world like this, ignoring the treasure, he can focus. Think things through. And he does enjoy the quiet, even if it is just a reminder of what he will lose soon enough.

There is a knock on the door, and Thorin knows that there is only one member of the company brave enough to disturb him at a time like this. He does not answer, knowing full well that the halfling will let himself in anyway. More than anything it is a test; he counts the seconds until the door swings open.

“Bilbo.” If the situation was different Thorin would still be formal. He would have waited much longer to address the halfling by first name, to take this, whatever it is, further. But there is no time, and he would much rather share something with Bilbo while he still can, than have nothing.

The halfling is still wearing the rugged blue coat he was given in Esgaroth, and there are shadows beneath his eyes. He looks worn out, and had the situation been different Thorin would have asked about his burden; offered help. Now he remains quiet, knowing that certain things better not be shared.

Bilbo does not ask about the chambers, but the way he looks around the room betrays his curiosity. It is a modest abode, and Thorin is sitting on the stone foundations of what once might have been a bed. As Bilbo closes the door Thorin comes up to meet him, looking him over as if to assure he is well – as if the halfling could possibly have managed to get into trouble during the short amount of time they have been apart.

Meeting Thorin’s eyes, perhaps in an attempt to reassure him, Bilbo offers a tired smile. Then he takes a step closer, handing Thorin a bottle. It is old and covered in dirt, but he would recognize the craftsmanship anywhere.

“Where did you find it?” His voice nothing but a harsh breath he traces the fine metalwork, the grey dust sticking to his fingertips. The bottle is heavy in his hands, still holding some kind of liquid after all these years.

Bilbo shrugs, reaching out and using the sleeve of his coat to wipe away the rest of the dirt. “I found it when I was wandering the halls. Incredible it has endured for so long, is it not?”

Thorin can barely manage to nod in agreement. He is unsure of whether it is the finding or the precious metal rendering him speechless, and so he turns to Bilbo, searching the halfling’s features in the hope of finding something to hold on to – something to keep him from slipping.

Bilbo looks into his eyes, a reassuring smile on his lips. “I have something to confess – I may have already tasted it.”

With that he reaches out, swiftly opening the bottle. For a moment his hand lingers, his fingertips trailing across Thorin’s knuckles, but then he pulls away, as if he has overstepped some kind of boundary.

Thorin inclines his head, breaking eye contact for a moment. The scent emanating from the bottle brings back memories of a time since long gone, but he has spent most of his life in mourning; for once he will focus on the present.

“What did you think?” He can barely keep the amusement from his voice, as he recalls the tales he has heard of the eating habits of halflings. There are few members of the company – except, perhaps, his nephews – that he can imagine tasting an ancient beverage without consulting anyone first.

Bilbo simply hums in reply, as if he is barely paying attention to the conversation. Turning to him Thorin notices how Bilbo’s gaze lingers absentmindedly on his lips, and so he repeats the question. “The drink – did you like it?”

“It is quite intoxicating.” There is warmth in Bilbo’s voice, and he licks his lips as if trying to savor any traces of the liquid. “Very heady, and it bites you on the back of the throat.”

Watching Thorin raise the bottle to his lips Bilbo hesitates for a moment, and when he speaks his voice is mischievous but firm. “It reminded me of you.”

Thorin does not sputter, but for a moment he simply closes his eyes and breathes, trying to ignore the shiver brought on by Bilbo’s words. The brew stings his chapped lips, but he swallows it down nevertheless, the taste bringing back memories of feasts he would attend in his youth.

He returns the bottle to the halfling – watching Bilbo tilt his head back as he takes a swig – and Thorin is not sure what he is expecting from this. There is the familiar taste of so long ago at the tip of his tongue, and his heart is racing. More than anything he is angry, because they are reaching a breaking point; this is not what it should be, but it is all they will ever have.

Bilbo barely has the time to lower the bottle when Thorin makes his decision, crowding the burglar against the nearest wall and bringing up his hands frame his face. Thorin’s breaths are heavy, his jaw clenched, and there is worry in his heart that this is false; that he has simply dreamed this up in his desperation for something real.

He is trying to be tender – cautious – as he leans in, his eyes never leaving Bilbo’s in case the halfling does not want this. Thorin still knows little of Bilbo’s culture, and he is well aware of the risk that he has completely misinterpreted the halfling’s behavior. This could all be hospitality; respect; fear; a number of things that have little to do with emotional attachment. But as his hair drapes around them, tangled curls of dark and grey, Bilbo reaches up, blunt nails at the nape of Thorin’s neck.

It is the consent Thorin has been waiting for, but he cannot bring himself to close the distance between them. Bilbo’s breath is ghosting against his lips, his throat, and Thorin could unravel from this. The heat they share is addictive, ragged gasps and Thorin is almost frightened by the intensity – because he could lose himself in this. His mind is nothing but white-noise when Bilbo surges forward, rushed enough for their teeth to click, their noses to bump; it is all but perfect and for the first time in weeks Thorin feels fully grounded, fully in control. For a moment there is no hesitation, no sickness, no darkness – nothing but Bilbo’s searing touch. The bottle clatters to the floor, forgotten.

His heart aches when tasting the bitterness of alcohol on Bilbo’s breath, remnants of the past found in the quick nips of chapped lips. Licking along the seam of Bilbo’s lips he tries to memorize every inch of the halfling, because even though he knows the sickness might overcome him completely there is hope in his heart that he will still have memories – precious and pure, even when his mind knows nothing but greed and jealousy.

Bilbo’s lips fall open with a stuttered moan, his warmth inviting and safe. Thorin loses himself in soft, tentative licks and stuttered breaths, enjoying the feel of Bilbo’s hands tangling in his hair, desperate for closeness.

And he needs the intimacy. Needs to get beneath all those layers and layers of clothing. In search for more he unbuttons the halfling’s shirt, his vest, and instead of skin finds the smooth surface of metal. Mithril, burning with Bilbo's body heat against his fingertips.

Thorin breaks the kiss with a shivery moan, if only for a moment to see Bilbo – his burglar – clad in starlight, a treasure come to life in the shadowy room.  His hands roaming across the chainmail he imagines the flush of Bilbo’s skin underneath. Relishes in the way his chest rises and falls with every ragged breath; the curve of his round belly; the way his touch lingers by the pulse point on Thorin’s throat.

Bilbo watches him with knowing eyes as Thorin’s hands explore the gleaming metal, as if he knows that the allure is the shirt itself and not what is underneath. Still, his features remain soft, understanding, and Thorin almost recoils, because this has been a long time coming, and his intentions towards the halfling – his halfling – has always been pure. There may be darkness within him, but he would never act this way out of greed.

It is agonizing, and with a hard grip on Bilbo’s hips he pulls the halfling flush against his bulk, his hands never leaving the Mithril shirt as he once again captures Bilbo’s lips. Twisted thoughts resonate through his mind as he licks into Bilbo’s mouth, savoring the heat while he tries to keep the echoes of _mine, mine, mine_ at bay.

His thoughts incoherent he slowly moves his hands, struggling to remind himself that skin is much more important than metal; that it is poisonous to imagine Bilbo in halls of gold, stripped bare and laid out among gems and precious tokens, one with the treasure.

It is pure coincidence when he traces the pocket of Bilbo’s vest, feeling the outline of something tiny, yet heavy. He does not have time to figure out what it is, as Bilbo’s tender touch turns almost violent; his grip tight as he pulls Thorin closer, biting at his bottom lip, hissing into the kiss.

“Mine.” His voice is unlike anything Thorin has ever heard, raw – demanding – and Thorin cannot keep from moaning; a broken, wanton sound that echoes around them.

This is beyond his understanding, but he knows that it is not what it should be; that his precious burglar deserves so much more.  And yet his hands clench fistfuls of Bilbo’s hair, and it has to hurt, but the halfling – his halfling – simply hold him just as close, hands tight enough in Thorin’s tunic to tear it slightly.

There is the realization that this is all they will ever have, and for a moment he can barely breathe. They are broken people holding onto this single moment of clarity, until the abyss once again envelops them, and Thorin knows that he could never shut the world out, yet wishes he could keep the doors to these chambers closed forever. That he could be allowed to know Bilbo as intimately as he knows the halls and the stone of Erebor.

Breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against Bilbo’s he can barely bring himself to speak. The reality of it all is overwhelming. He wants to dress Bilbo in the finest of jewelry and the heaviest of chains, and when he speaks his voice wavers with need.

“I am sorry.”

Bilbo reaches up to cradle his face, his touch once again soft and caring. “I know.” His voice is a broken whisper – it is everything and nothing. “I know.” And Thorin needs to hear this, because while he cannot speak of these things, it is important that Bilbo is aware of his wishes, even if he could never truly act upon them.

 “Stay.” He is anything but strong and sure, his hands shaking as he runs them through Bilbo’s hair. Short curls of dirty gold that would make the most exquisite braids, and if they had been granted more time Thorin would have showed him so much. The intertwining of hair, the carving of stone, the deep vaults of the mountain that were always meant to hold someone precious.

Bilbo watches him with misty eyes, smiling wanly as he puts some space between them. He buttons his shirt swiftly, and then reaches for Thorin’s hand, entwining their fingers.

“As you wish.”

Thorin tries not to think of the fine metalwork beneath Bilbo’s clothes – tries not to think of his halfling as treasure – as he leads him across the chamber. The foundations in the corner of the room are nothing but an elevated plane carved from the stone. He imagines how a family lived here once. How a loving couple would lay to rest in this very room, until their entire existence was obliterated in the fire. All that remains is this, ashes and rocks, and as he lies down on what might have once been a bed, the stone is harsh and cold but comforting in its familiarity.

Bilbo carefully lies down close to him, letting Thorin wrap an arm around his waist to pull him near. And Thorin tries not to think of the outline of Mithril beneath Bilbo’s shirt, he tries not to think of the gleam of purest starlight and how he wants nothing more than drape his precious burglar in the finest of gemstones.

The curls of Bilbo’s hair tickle him slightly as he places a lingering kiss to the back of the halfling’s head, breathing in that scent of grass and pipe weed and iron that he – in another time and place – could have called home.

He always expected to sleep soundly once they had reclaimed Erebor, but these days he carries the fear that he will wake up a different person. That he will lose himself once he closes his eyes, and that the world will never be quite the same once he awakens.

With this in mind he holds Bilbo closer, as if something physical could keep the darkness at bay, and tries to accept that the moment is over. That he will wake up alone, and that this – something that once seemed simple and certain – will be complicated, lost in the greater struggle that awaits them. Nevertheless, they will have had this moment, and it was not perfect, it was not what he had hoped for, but it was beautiful and pure and for a few hours he could convince himself that it was the only thing worth having.

For but a night he could let go, allow himself something he thought he would never have, and there was happiness in Bilbo’s touch – safety in every kiss. A memory worth having, no matter what comes next.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I write short things on [tumblr](http://comediakaidanovsky.tumblr.com/) as well (but mostly I just cry about fictional characters).


End file.
